


M'lord

by vintaged



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drunk Merlin, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, Mild cursing but nothing super major, Mother Hen Arthur, Yeahhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is drunk, and Arthur thinks it's hilarious. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M'lord

Merlin is drunk.

Arthur finds it hilarious at first, in a for-god’s-sakes-why-did-you-think-you-could-beat-Gwaine-in-a-drinking-contest sort of way. There’s certainly something halfway endearing about the way Merlin morphed from determined victor to giggling buffoon after downing barely three drinks (not that he’d admit it; that smile’s got to dim sometime).

To be fair, they were rather large drinks. Arthur’s always considered Merlin a lightweight, but he must admit, as he reaches for the current half-empty container and tugs it from Merlin’s hands, the manservant certainly handled more than he would have expected. Merlin reaches for the tankard as it leaves his loosened grip, but his vision must really be distorted because those thin fingers only end up scrabbling at the tabletop; he mumbles something incoherent, lets loose another giggle, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” he calls irritably over to the knight, who is currently leaning against the far wall and laughing at something his new friends have just whispered in his ear (Arthur highly suspects it wasn’t appropriate even for this tavern). Gwaine just lifts his (tenth? Twelfth? Arthur’s lost track) tankard and nods in his direction.

“M’lord,” he yells back. He’s not even tipsy yet, the bastard.

Merlin laughs again; Arthur turns back, the tankard still in his hand, to see the damned manservant leaning his head on his fist and smiling cheerily up at him.

“Doesn’t your face hurt yet?” Arthur snaps (he can’t look at Merlin, not right now). He replaces the container on the table, far away from Merlin’s drunken reach.

“No’ yet,” his friend slurs. “Why? Dya wan’ me to frown?” He attempts to turn his lips down, ends up in a sort of half-pout (those lips…) that quickly reverts back to a smile. His eyelids droop lazily.

“For the love of Camelot, Merlin,” Arthur sighs. “Just get up.”

“Can’t.”

“Of course you can. Come on,” Arthur pushes more drinks out of the way and shoves at Merlin’s shoulder. “Don’t make me carry you.”

Merlin giggles. “You wouln’ dare,” he says thickly, “Can’ be seen carrying a m’nservant, can you sire?”

Arthur’s chest tightens slightly.

“I can always drag you,” he says tetchily, and loops his arms under Merlin’s. With a grunt he starts to pull; Merlin slumps into his arms, his feet catching on the stool legs as Arthur tugs him unceremoniously off the seat.

“Arthurrr,” Merlin grouses, as he’s forced onto his feet. “You prat. I h’vn’t finished my drink yet.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Arthur grumbles. “Can you stand?”

Merlin leans back into Arthur’s chest. “Yes,” he says, but Arthur can feel his body trembling; with a sigh he turns Merlin forcefully and, before he can fall, ducks his head under the manservant’s limp right arm. He wraps his other hand around Merlin’s waist, linking fingers along his beltloop.

“I s’pose we’re going home now,” Merlin says forlornly, his smile fading as he takes in the new surroundings from a slouched standing position.

“Yes, you idiot,” Arthur snaps. “You’re lucky Gwaine’s paying for all of this, you know. Otherwise I’d never have let you come.”

He slowly turns them around, beginning the slow trek between the sweating, filthy bodies that make up this tavern’s clientele. Merlin’s head lolls to the side as they stumble towards the door (it seems so much farther away with Merlin’s extra weight), that goofy, drunken smile again returning to his face.

“I’d have come anyway, y’know,” he slurs. “And you couldn’t resist a free drink.”

“Shut up,” Arthur scowls at him (the door’s actually in sight now, thank the gods). “At least _I_ didn’t challenge the master drinker himself to a contest. Honestly, Merlin, what were you thinking?”

Merlin goes silent for a moment as they dodge a particularly brutish-looking man. Arthur chances a look, and sees that his manservant’s face has gone suspiciously slack. Suddenly his cheeks puff.

“Oh no,” he hisses, as Merlin’s shoulders heave and his lidded eyes bulge. “You’re not going to… not here-”

With a great jerk Arthur pulls Merlin forward, practically dragging him the last few feet to the door and shoving against the wooden barrier. They tumble outside, and not even a moment after the door’s slammed shut behind them Merlin’s leaned forward and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the dusty ground.

Arthur rolls his eyes and tries to keep his boots clean. 

“Better?” he asks after a moment, as Merlin slumps against his chest ( _he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it_ ) and breathes heavily.

“Mmhmm,” Merlin says, and vomits again.

Another few seconds pass, and this time when Merlin leans into Arthur’s arms he shows no sign of anything other than the occasional burp leaving his lips. Arthur’s glad; the next person to step outside won’t be.

“Come on,” he mumbles into Merlin’s ear, wrinkling his nose at the smell of bile. “Let’s go.”

Merlin nods slowly. With a sigh Arthur loops his hand around Merlin’s waist again, and starts half-carrying the poor excuse for a servant off down the darkened street.

They don’t get far; Merlin has quieted a bit, but he still seems reluctant to actually pick up his feet. He seems more focused on getting Arthur to carry him, if anything –several times he stops completely, once leaning back enough into Arthur’s arms that he’s forced to turn his head to yell at Merlin to _stand up before my arm snaps._

But their noses brush and Arthur panics.

“Merlin!” he manages brusquely, as Merlin’s head dips into the curve of his neck. “Merlin what are you doing-”

“M’prince,” Merlin murmurs drunkenly. Arthur can feel his face heat up, even in the dark (his heart is racing suddenly. He doesn't know why). 

“What?” he says slowly. He is suddenly incredibly aware of Merlin's closeness, of the dry lips at his throat. 

“…My… prince,” Merlin repeats, slower, clearer. Arthur isn’t shivering at the feel of warm breath ghosting over his skin; not at all.

“I...” he starts to respond. 

Merlin smiles into Arthur’s neck, hiccups once, and passes out.

Arthur almost drops with him; Merlin may be thin as a stick, but the sudden addition of weight is so utterly unexpected that it takes a second for him to get his bearings. He staggers forward, and Merlin’s body follows.

“Perfect,” he sighs. His arms ache. “I really do _not_ want to carry you, Merlin…”

No response. Arthur can feel his arms numbing. 

“ _Fine_ , you spoiled idiot,” he grumbles. “But you had better wake up soon.”

Quickly (because he doesn’t want to hold Merlin, of course he doesn’t), Arthur ducks out from under Merlin’s limp arm, scooping his damned manservant up before those useless knees buckle. He cradles Merlin’s head against his chest and winces when one bony arm gets trapped between their bodies. Awkwardly, Arthur pushes the limb up and over his shoulder (he’s becoming more and more grateful for the cover of night). 

Of course, Merlin doesn’t help at all. It’s his fault that Arthur’s carrying him home like a princess in the first place, after all. But for some reason Arthur can’t bring himself to hate Merlin for this; if anything, he feels something akin to sympathy wash over him as he stands there in the abandoned street, staring down at the mop of dark hair in his arms.

“Idiot,” he says again; suddenly his chest feels tight again, tighter than before. On impulse (cursed thing) he stops walking for a moment, presses his lips briefly to Merlin’s head (his hair is soft against Arthur's mouth) before hoisting him up and continuing on towards the castle. 

Merlin shifts in his arms and Arthur tries not to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how much alcohol a tankard can hold; my research didn't turn up any matching information. If you know, please feel free to correct me!
> 
> Thank you for reading!:)


End file.
